


Frozen for an Age

by Dorinda



Category: Sinbad (TV)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Escape, Guilt, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 21:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17670044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/pseuds/Dorinda
Summary: He had a plan—he always did, sooner or later. But this one felt as cruel as anything he could have imagined.





	Frozen for an Age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Muccamukk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts).



Sinbad woke at last when his captors' boat thudded into something. The shore, probably. But with a sack over his head, he couldn't see to judge, and with his hands lashed behind him, he couldn't get at the sack.

He heard the Northmen talking among themselves, up and clomping around. Mostly in the lingua franca, but it wasn't any help, loud chatter about sore backs and time for a drink. The whole time the boat tipped and righted, tipped and righted, as they clambered off.

All he could think about was the _inconvenience_ of it. The second he had his sight and his legs he’d be off: a quick and simple escape, so he could get back to searching for Gunnar. It had only been a few days, he couldn’t be too far ahead—

"All right, little man," one of them said cheerfully, and Sinbad felt himself hoisted into the air and slung easily over someone's thick bare shoulder. Sinbad dangled there and breathed in the odors of sweat and iron, his bearer walking comfortably along. Just a single one of them. Showoff.

"'Ey, you asshole, put him down," said someone nearby. And for a second Sinbad felt relief—someone willing to be on his side?—until the man continued: "Why should he get a free ride? Put him to work, for fuck's sake."

The asshole with the thick sweaty shoulder heaved Sinbad down onto his feet and without any ceremony pulled off the hood, yanking at some of Sinbad's hair in the process.

"Ow!" Sinbad said, glowering and squinting in the sudden light.

The big Northman before him raised his eyebrows—red-gold, like his shaggy hair, like the rich chain around his neck—and without any apparent effort backhanded Sinbad in the mouth. "Ow," he said mockingly as Sinbad winced.

Sinbad sucked his bloodied lip and kept his opinions to himself for the moment. And while the man untied his wrists and ankles, he took the opportunity to look around.

They were still new to him, these shores, the air cool and tangy with pine, the ground soft with loam. But not entirely foreign anymore. As the Providence had idled vaguely northwards, trading and exploring in ways the broken curse finally allowed, Gunnar had actually unbent—more and more every day. He'd even explained things. He'd spent time alone with Sinbad, strolling towns and woods, putting an arm around his shoulders when it got too chilly. He'd traded for a jacket just Sinbad's size, the collar lined with fur. He'd helped him into it and watched him a long, silent time in the twilight.

That fur collar was damp now, the jacket bedraggled from the time spent in the bottom of a raider's boat, but Sinbad was grateful for it. He'd never had to spend so much time without proper sun. And of course, once he was out of here and back on Gunnar’s trail, it would only get colder as he kept tracking him north.

Damn him, anyway.

"Ready to behave?" the shaggy Northman said. He casually drew a long knife from his belt.

Sinbad nodded.

The knife pointed in the direction of Northmen carrying things off the boat. "Unload."

* * *

He toted a couple of sacks of whatever it was—loot, he supposed, cloth and cups and cured skins, even some jingling that sounded like the metal of rings or bracelets. Other people's things. No other people, Sinbad was glad to see. He'd never asked Gunnar, of course, but he'd heard of the slaving raids, even if they'd never dared come as far south as Basra.

The line of raiders eventually led him into a clearing, and there laid out in a semicircle was a camp at least a day or two old: some cooking fires, a few carts and sledges, and a high, long tent, everything still tidy, all waiting for them. Other Northmen were already there, in clean woollens instead of traveling clothes. The groups shouted greetings to each other, all the big men mingling and thumping and shoving each other like a pack of slobbering dogs.

The man who'd set him to work emerged from the scrum and pushed him toward the tent. "Get that stuff inside, boy, and stop gawping." He sounded jolly enough now, clutching a full wineskin, but even the casual push nearly knocked Sinbad down.

So Sinbad, thinking about the camp layout and how best to navigate it after dark, hauled his loot into the tent.

It was dimmer in there, but a dying fire glowed in a central hearth, and some light and air filtered through an overhead smokehole. The raiders were spilling in through the entrance, laughing, jostling him as they passed, and Sinbad saw they had wine jars now as well as bottles and skins.

He made his way toward the growing pile of booty he could see in the dark far corner, right by some Northmen lounging in the shadows on rugs and blankets. The most secure spot, he supposed, or at least the hardest to get a head-start from if you felt like stealing from your mates. He found a likely niche in the heap and dropped the sacks there.

And just as Sinbad straightened up, one hand easing his lower back, the fire was fed, flared up, and settled into brightness. Light caught bodies, faces, a familiar poll of cropped golden hair. Right in the middle of the group of men relaxing there—

"Gunnar!"

Even in the middle of the growing crowd and the happy chatter of meeting, Sinbad's voice was loud. It sounded startled—it might even have sounded angry, though he didn't think he'd meant to. None of the true things came through, the important things: the relief, the worry, the desire to grab him and shake him and— But no time for any of that now. He wished, too late, that he hadn't spoken at all.

For of course the Northmen noticed. The ones close around Gunnar noticed most of all, grinning, elbowing him. Gunnar stared. He was clad in nothing but laced woolen trews; his bare chest and shoulders shone in the firelight, and an unfamiliar gold torc was snug round his neck.

"It knows you, Gunnar!"

"By reputation," laughed someone else. "His mama said be a good boy, or the Lost Son Of The Valsgarde will come for you."

"Could he ever be bad enough to deserve such an honor?"

"He looks a very bad boy to me," said a shaven-headed, brown-bearded man next to Gunnar, eyeing Sinbad up and down. There were rumbles of laughter, low and eager.

The man on Gunnar's other side, enormously tall and gleaming with gold on his wrists and neck and upper arms, spoke up. "It seems as if we ran across you at just the right time, Gunnar Hafliðason. Our patience with your long absence may have been rewarded with an extra gift." His voice was steady and measured, and the Northmen seemed to listen to him. They were quick to agree, curs falling in behind their pack-master.

"I said, didn't I, that we'd be glad we gave old Gunnar another chance!"

"What's the story then?"

"Tell!"

"Must be a good one—"

"Come on then, speak up, you stubborn fucking goat!"

Drawn by the scuffling and shouting, more men crowded around, blocking the firelight. Some put their hands on Sinbad, heavy on his nape, his back, his hip. Gunnar was in shadow now, silent and stiff. His hesitation was going on too long, and even without being able to see his face anymore, Sinbad could tell he wasn't able to break it. Someone had to do something, before the scent of thunder in the air turned into a storm.

So Sinbad stepped forward from under the grasping hands and knelt before Gunnar's blanket, as gracefully as he could manage with all these Northmen pressing in. "I've been trying to find you," he said. "Master."

The Northmen roared. Cacophony reigned for a little while, and Sinbad looked as hard at Gunnar as he could, but with this crowd he dared not let anything true show in his eyes.

"Now you've _got_ to tell us," someone said, and pressed a jar into Gunnar's hand. It smelled of beer.

"Well," Gunnar said at last. His voice was chilly, empty, as Sinbad had never heard it. "I did travel for a while with a few people."

"All like him?" someone asked, and someone else chimed in, more businesslike: "Where are they now?"

Gunnar hissed with derision and drank from the jar. "Weaklings and half-wits. They believed me when I said I was a trader. A _traveller_." His teeth shone. "They couldn't see what was right before their eyes."

The group laughed; the chaotic edge began to ease. Many of them settled onto blankets, others went for wine.

"You showed them a thing or two, though, didn't you?" said someone from behind Sinbad.

"Oh yes." Gunnar drank again, tipping the jar up deeply, and the men around him toasted and cheered and followed suit.

"We should've trusted you had something fun in hand," said a squat, barrel-chested man as he peeled himself out of his travel jerkin. 

"Well," said his neighbor, " _I_ never doubted him at all. Can't help it if _you're_ a fucking moron, mate."

The squat man dropped the jerkin and punched him in the face, and suddenly they were brawling, exchanging heavy blows that would have knocked Sinbad's head off twice over. Their neighbors just chatted and lifted their drinks out of the way. 

The crowd shifted and reformed as the fight rolled this way and that. The firelight got through again; the ominous darkness almost seemed never to have been. Now it felt more like a score of tired men all settling in for the night, each with his own concerns, and Sinbad let himself hope that the worst of the danger was past.

But then the shaven-head with the brown beard leaned on Gunnar's shoulder and said, "This one is still alive." His intent gaze crept over Sinbad like a seeking hand.

Gunnar shrugged.

"And despite everything, he came crawling after you. That's sweet." The man smiled at Sinbad. "Sorry, boy. Better luck with your next master, eh?"

Then, as Sinbad had feared, he beckoned.

For a moment, Sinbad didn't move. And just before it would have become a problem, Gunnar said, in lazy inquiry: "Next master?"

"Well," the man said, "you left this one behind. Finders keepers."

Gunnar snapped his fingers. Sinbad gratefully rose, stepped onto the blanket, and knelt again with his knee pressed against Gunnar's leg. He bowed deeply. Gunnar's hand landed heavily, caressingly on his head.

"S'not very fair," said the man.

"One rewards the faithful dog." Gunnar's chill voice had a crisp, sharp edge to it now, crystalline.

"You cast off a cur and it's anyone's for the taking."

Gunnar said quietly, "Try to take him, he who will." Sinbad stayed as still as he could, Gunnar's fingers cold on the back of his neck.

A grim pause. Then: "Didn't say I was taking anybody. Just don't know why you care so much about some stripling whore."

" _Care_ ," said Gunnar dismissively. "You forget who you're talking to."

"Perhaps he does," came the voice of the tall man who seemed like the leader. "You were gone a long time, Gunnar Hafliðason. But now he begins to remember. Do you not, Olav."

"Aye, Lord," Olav said after a moment, sounding sullen but obedient. "At least I remember he was never soft."

Gradually the men seated around Gunnar began to talk to each other again, and drink, and laugh. Somewhere in the background it sounded like the impromptu fighters were finishing up, the crowd congratulating the winner and settling their bets. Gunnar finally removed his hand. Sinbad straightened, and they looked at each other.

"Here," said Olav, swapping out Gunnar's jar for a full one. "No hard feelings. Keep your dog."

He barked at Sinbad, pretending playfulness. Sinbad lowered his eyes and hoped his reactions were lost in the flicker of firelight. This one was going to be a problem.

The problem remained, even as the afternoon turned to evening. The Northmen drank, and brought in rough-and-ready food from the cooking fires outside, and ate, and swore, and joked, and drank, and drank, and drank. All the while, Olav was there: courteous and attentive, his eyes full of humor barely masking his hunger and rage. Sinbad knelt very close to Gunnar, held his trencher as he ate, took pitchers passing by from hand to hand and filled his jar. He flattered himself that he was good at it, for a first-timer—and were it for anyone but Gunnar, it would have rankled. Trouble was, they still couldn’t let their eyes signal one thing, and the way Olav leaned on Gunnar, not even a whisper felt safe.

The night drew down. The feasting and drinking continued. And between Olav on one side and the chieftain on the other, Sinbad knew they wouldn't be left to themselves. At least not this way.

At last, Sinbad spoke, as mildly as he could, but privately feeling it a wild reach in the dark:

"Master. What may I do for you now?"

Gunnar was silent a long time, staring into the noisy, belching, laughing mass of Valsgarde, the tent full of cheerful ravening wolves. Sinbad tried to read his expression, but all he could really see was the enormous effort it was taking for Gunnar to draw in each seemingly-casual breath.

Then Gunnar said, like a man with half his mind somewhere else, "Be a good boy and don't make trouble. Soon we will sleep."

Olav muttered something scornful. 

Sinbad sat obediently by Gunnar as he drank and brooded, but not with much hope. It might possibly have worked, waiting for the room to be asleep so they could sneak out together, were it not for the august company they were in. Olav's anger kept him far too alert, and the chieftain was the center of attention. Probably why they'd hemmed Gunnar back in this corner in the first place, Sinbad realized—a remnant of distrust for a lost lamb seemingly back in the fold.

The space they needed would never be given to them; they'd have to take it. But how on earth to carve it out?

Sinbad knew what he might have tried, back in his street-rat days in Basra. He knew how he'd handled men back then, big men, wolves. Even the ones whose hot breath had come closest, stinking on his neck, power and threat and possession.

He'd never been an innocent, not really. If only Gunnar had understood that, that last night together, alone in a wood as cool and damp and strange to Sinbad as something out of a story. Gunnar had moved close to him to lend him warmth, gently adjusted the beautiful jacket, his gift. Sinbad had gladly leaned against him, lifted his face to Gunnar's, smiling in the dark.

And Gunnar had taken the unspoken invitation at last. Kissed him, sudden and clumsy. Shoved him hard against a tree, overpowering, the bark rough and welcoming against Sinbad's back. Sinbad's breath was knocked loose in a gasp. It was perfect. 

Only for a few seconds. Then Gunnar was backing away, his hands raised and his eyes glazed in horror. He had only looked like that once, to Sinbad's knowledge: when he was under the merciless touch of the Khaima, facing the true memories of his past. Valsgarde. Taking what he wanted; violating the innocent.

Gunnar had fled from him. 

And now that Sinbad had succeeded in his search against all hope, and suspected that he could manage these Northmen the way he needed to, his heart broke all over again. He had a plan—he always did, sooner or later. But this one felt as cruel as anything he could have imagined.

 _Trust me_ , he thought as hard as he could, though if thought alone could have connected them, surely Gunnar never would have left.

He drew a deep breath. Stood up. Fussed for a minute with one of the blankets, drawing it up over Gunnar's shoulders and tucking it snugly round him like a cloak.

Then he carelessly stepped back. Took a long, smooth stretch, bending, swaying, savoring the movement of his body. He eased his stiff muscles, rubbed up beneath his tunic along the skin of his stomach and chest. Yawned, sighed, smiled.

He could feel the attention of the nearby crowd settling on him. He ignored it the way he had taught himself, disdaining it, calling it only to spurn it with a flick of his head.

When the time felt right, he walked easily, sinuously to stand before Gunnar. Bowed his head. Took a long, slow time to kneel, coiling himself down, thighs apart.

"Master," he said softly, and looked up through his eyelashes.

 _Trust me_.

Gunnar looked for a terrible fraction of a moment as if someone had slipped a knife into his vitals. Then his face was once more cool and blank. "Boy."

"Let me serve you," Sinbad said. He laid his hands on Gunnar's forearm. He did his best to make his grip harder than it looked, pressing the skin with his nails. "Please."

Gunnar took a drink instead of answering, and Sinbad couldn't blame him, but of course Olav was on it at once.

" _Please_ , is it." He slung his arm around Gunnar's blanketed back, and it was clearly a yoke rather than any kind of comradeship. "Maybe you've got cold feet. Cold and soft, like your prick." He smiled. "Don't worry, we can warm him up for you."

Gunnar didn't react, thankfully. Maybe it was Sinbad's fingernails against his skin. He set down the jar, wiped his mouth, and bunched one fist in Sinbad's jacket, yanking him off balance. He held the weight easily.

Sinbad let himself hang awkwardly in the jacket and look helpless.

"Do not displease me."

"No, Master," Sinbad said, thinking, _atta boy_.

Gunnar tossed him down; not hard, but Sinbad made sure not to brace himself, so it was an awkward tumble. He spent time getting back onto his knees. Gingerly, he reached out and took one of Gunnar's hands.

His hand was still so cold. Sinbad squeezed it and tried to subtly warm it, though he couldn't just openly rub the heat back into it like he wanted to. There was a lot he wanted to do that he couldn't. But the thing about a last-ditch plan was, you just had to throw yourself into it, and pick up the pieces later.

He hoped there would still be pieces to pick up.

Slowly, he lifted Gunnar's hand to his mouth. He kissed the cold fingers, lingeringly, one by one. He kissed the knuckles, the fingertips, tasting salt and beer. He used his tongue.

Then holding the hand firmly between both of his own, he pressed his closed mouth to the tips of the first and second fingers together. It was he himself who relaxed his lips just enough for the fingers to start sliding in; Gunnar's hand was still almost frozen in his. But he hoped it might look like Gunnar's idea.

Because the thing about a crowd was—

"Soft," Olav said to the chieftain, rolling his eyes.

—for instance Olav—

The chieftain was watching with a sober, judging face.

—they only really trusted what they were used to.

Sinbad sucked, drawing Gunnar's fingers in deeply. He kept his guiding touch on Gunnar's hand as subtle as he could. The fingers were big, cool and thick and callused on his tongue, but he could take it. He hoped his mouth said that somehow, his tongue stroking slow and hot over Gunnar's skin. But either way—

Sinbad made a choking noise and gripped Gunnar's wrist. He widened his eyes and moaned something panicky around the fingers. With a convulsive movement to look like he was struggling against it, he pulled them in to the last knuckle.

Gunnar's eyes met his. Glassy, cold, and arrogant, and it was far too dangerous for them to be otherwise. But underneath, he would be paying attention. So Sinbad deliberately and slowly tightened his hold, both with his hands and with his jaw. Not biting, but bracing, holding on to Gunnar in readiness.

It wasn't as if they had a history of sparring to depend on—Gunnar did not fight for fun. And though Rina surely did, she never had the patience to teach, only tossed and tripped you this way and that until everyone was laughing. But still, he leaned his weight back, readying himself as best he could.

And then he waited. It was all he could do. He found that he couldn't simply seize Gunnar and pull him headlong into his worst nightmare—not even to keep him alive, let alone to save them both. Gunnar was going to have to decide. It had to be that way, although in a sense that was the cruellest stroke of all.

Sinbad couldn't even comfort him with his gaze. He could only look through the eyes of the frightened slave and urge Gunnar to remember—to remember _him_ , Sinbad. 

Finally, he felt an answering twitch in Gunnar's hand, in the fingers against his tongue. It would have to be enough.

Sinbad threw himself, and was thrown, back hard onto the floor by the force of Gunnar's hand shoving his jaw. Gunnar landed bodily on top of him like a pouncing lion, his chest slamming into Sinbad's and knocking the breath out of him in a whimper.

A sloppy cheer spread through the crowd. The Valsgarde's lost son was taking his rightful prey.

"Get him, Gunnar!" someone called.

Sinbad's eyes were watering, which was all to the good. Let them think he wept. But while he struggled to catch his breath around the fingers in his mouth, he squeezed Gunnar's wrist as hard as he could. He didn't worry about causing him pain...not with the Valsgarde's casual compliments already showering over him, each one a steel-tipped barb.

"Plough 'im!"

"You always gave the best shows—"

"Give the boy a little surprise before he meets his maker!"

"'Ey, what do you mean little?"

The whole time they laughed in sloppy swells, like waves cresting and crashing.

The blanket he'd tucked around Gunnar's shoulders had indeed come with him, as Sinbad had hoped—partly, anyway, covering them from the hips down. It would have to do. Beneath the blanket, moving as if he struggled, he stealthily twined his legs around one of Gunnar's, trying somehow to hold him.

Gunnar's face was a mask. His skin was so much paler since they'd left the sun of the south; even the familiar scar on his brow had faded some. He had black circles beneath his strange light eyes, as if he hadn't slept for days. His soft fair beard was untrimmed. His teeth were bared, like an animal on the hunt, or in a trap.

He slowly began to withdraw his fingers from Sinbad's mouth. Sinbad thrashed his head from side to side, choking and coughing, until his mouth was empty and Gunnar had him by the chin. And just as Sinbad was thinking up their next move, Gunnar slid his hand down to Sinbad's neck.

"Now that's the man I remember," someone said in a thick, satisfied voice. Sounded like Olav. Gunnar still looked entirely blank and feral, but his chest hitched against Sinbad's, his breathing rapid and uneven.

At once, Sinbad lifted his chin slightly, letting Gunnar's hand settle across his throat. He was not afraid.

A long moment passed. Then Gunnar took a sudden deep breath in. He brushed one finger against the side of Sinbad's jaw, and Sinbad, as if resisting, turned his head. This let Gunnar lean on him, pressing down with one big hand, seeming to put his whole arm into it; but the force, such as it was, was on the strong cords and muscle on the side of Sinbad's neck rather than the windpipe. It hurt. And it was a stroke of genius.

Sinbad keened, high and helpless. No need to waste time trying to pretend to strip or fuck—the blanket didn’t cover enough, and the rut and the pain should be plenty. He hoped. So he subtly tightened his legs around Gunnar's under the blanket; Gunnar obediently surged forward with a hard thrust of his hips. Again, and again, Gunnar rocked violently back and forth, stropping himself on Sinbad like an object, while Sinbad let his eyes flutter closed and his voice die away into croaks and hisses.

No special reaction to be heard from the crowd. No particular cheering, but no enthralled silence, either. They were drunk, and chatty, and busy with their own concerns. Gunnar's recreation was neither here nor there. Sinbad felt for all the world like grinning, the way he did when a particularly stupid plan of his was bound to come off.

Instead, he went limp. Gunnar shoved his face hard into the crook of Sinbad's neck with a long, muffled scream. To the Valsgarde, it might have sounded like triumph. To Sinbad, it sounded like agony.

Gunnar slowly sat up astride him.

"He dead, then?" someone said, only vaguely interested.

Sinbad felt Gunnar's body twist and heard the thud of a single swift punch. Sounds of someone falling, laughter from those nearby. "What the fuck kind of hot water bottle would it be if it were," Gunnar said without emotion, breathing hard. "Now give me that jar."

He drank deeply, burped, and drank again. Then his weight shifted and Sinbad heard the jar smash against something on the other side of the tent. Voices from that direction amiably yelled and swore.

"Feeling better?" asked Olav. He sounded surprisingly sincere, even calm. Something about the savage little show seemed to have unwound him, and Sinbad didn't care to think too deeply into it.

"Tired," said Gunnar. "By your leave, Lord."

"Of course," said the chieftain. "You must take your rest. As must we all: tomorrow comes division of the spoils."

"Seems to me, Lord, he already took his fair share," said Olav. There, that sounded more like him.

"It will be considered," said the stern voice.

Sinbad felt Gunnar stand up over him, then one powerful hand grabbed him by the jacket and began to easily drag him across the tent floor, sliding and rumpling various rugs and blankets and furs. He was carelessly dropped at last and shoved to lie against something lumpy—a heap of bundles or sacks?—and Gunnar flopped down close beside him, covering them both to the forehead with a big scratchy blanket.

The evening continued around them without comment. The Northmen drank and relaxed; some sang, some talked, some argued; some, it sounded like, fucked; some fought, which sounded much the same. Sinbad could feel Gunnar trembling against him, his skin and muscle quivering in helpless tremors through his chest, his belly, his thighs.

Sinbad let his eyes open to the blanket's darkness and struggled to catch his breath. His heart was pounding hard in his ears like he had just surfaced from a deep dive. They might even get away with it...if, that is, they could get away.

Of course they could. And would. Once evening was well into night and those drunk bastards had knocked themselves out, they'd have a lot of options. Sinbad went through this and that plan in his mind, a little lightheaded from the sense of optimistic relief, and his pulse and breathing steadied in record time.

But Gunnar still shook. Even with the eyes of the Valsgarde off them and escape so close, he shivered like a sick man.

Sinbad reached out and fumbled for his hands, found one and drew it toward him—the same one he had sucked on, in fact. It was still so cold, the fingers stiff. Now, though, Sinbad could finally do what he had so badly wanted to do. He held the hand gently in both of his, pressed warmth into it, cradled it against his chest. He rubbed it, trying to waken the circulation.

When he lifted it to his mouth, however, blowing hot breath across the skin, Gunnar suddenly reacted. He snatched it away, yanking easily out of Sinbad's hold. And all at once he turned over, his back to Sinbad, staring in the direction of the drunk and sleepy crowd.

Sinbad blinked for a moment. Again he saw Gunnar's eyes in the night woods, stunned, white with memory and shame. A dozen arguments rose clamoring to the tip of his tongue. But here, he couldn't use any of them. And even if he could, he knew now that Gunnar wouldn't hear them.

So instead, without a word, he reached out to the shadow of Gunnar's broad back. He knew well the pattern of the old tattoo, twining around itself down his spine; he'd certainly watched Gunnar often enough, overtly and secretly, as he'd worked or lounged or hoisted a sail, the sun kissing him reddish-tan. He remembered the tattoo, and that its meaning was nothing Gunnar would discuss. He remembered even more clearly the scars.

He laid his hands on Gunnar's back. The muscles twitched at his touch. The skin was cool and clammy, despite the closeness of the tent and the recent exertion.

Gunnar had tucked him safely up against a pile of supplies; he was blocking Sinbad from the wolfpack with his own ravaged body, treating himself like an afterthought. Like a sacrifice. Sinbad was suddenly engulfed by a rush of anger, with a possessive edge that almost surprised him.

He ran his palms down the scarred back, then slid his arms around Gunnar from behind and pulled him in tightly, all at once. And despite Gunnar's sheer strength and breadth, he felt somehow fragile in Sinbad's embrace. 

Sinbad held him close, warming him. One hand rubbed idly along the plane of muscle over Gunnar's heart. After a time, he felt the trembling subside.

* * *

The Northmen dozed off. But Gunnar continued to wait, and so Sinbad waited, trusting him. And after a very short first-sleep, the crowd stirred again, rising in ones or twos to stumble outside for a piss or a puke. They shoved and climbed over each other like piglets in a pen.

The waves of migration returned, sorted themselves, settled. Olav in particular was well asleep again, Sinbad noticed from his peephole under a corner of the blanket. And as the last straggler came in, bitching about someone hogging his spot, Gunnar moved. Sinbad was ready.

Gunnar seized him by the jacket and rose, striding toward the entrance, hauling him carelessly along. Sinbad staggered by his side, hard-pressed to keep up and watching carefully from half-shut eyes.

At the tent flap, as Gunnar stomped into his boots, someone said drowsily, "He gonna point it for you?"

Gunnar looked down at the heap of furs that had spoken. He said archly, "He's going to do _something_ for me. If he knows what's good for him."

A muffled snigger, and a hand slapped Gunnar's calf. "We won't wait up."

Gunnar dragged him outside, and turned to thread a path past the smallest dying cookfire, into the darkness of the trees. They passed a little brush-shelter that might even have been a proper privy, and Sinbad marveled that these dogs could act so civilized when it suited them.

Then Gunnar let go of his jacket, and without a word or a signal they took off running together into the night.

* * *

They walked and ran for hours, quiet and alert. Gunnar knew the way. Sometimes they went to extra effort to hide their trail, crossing water, climbing through tangles of fallen trees. Sinbad showed Gunnar a trick he'd often used on smooth walls and columns back in Basra, how to use pressure to sort of walk yourself up between two of them; it worked just as well on smooth-barked trees that seemingly no one could climb.

They didn't talk. And it made sense, at least for a while. But the night sky started to take on a soft blue look, promising dawn, and still no sign of any pursuit. As skilled as the Valsgarde might have been, Sinbad frankly doubted that this particular squad would chase them without plenty of threatening noise, or in fact that they'd bother to chase them this far at all. Besides, he was tired.

Worse, though, he'd noticed an increasing unevenness in Gunnar's step. Gunnar still set a hard pace, but no longer steady, though he seemed not to care.

Well. Sinbad did, and that was that.

"Stop," Sinbad said, and bent with his hands on his thighs. "We have to stop."

Gunnar circled back to him. He looked confused, dazed, like Sinbad had suddenly woken him out of a deep sleep.

"Here." Sinbad dug into his pocket for a greasy fold of bread he'd filched while passing the cookfires; if it had finished cooking it might have been nicely toasted and rich with meat drippings, but in any case it was edible.

Gunnar sat with him, even if unwilling. And he ate, after being reminded twice. He pulled off bits of the bread and tucked them into his cheek, staring into the middle distance.

"Is there something in your boot?" Sinbad asked. He studied Gunnar's feet. "I don't recognize those ones. They new?" They were a good leather, but heavy, and with wool bands around the tops.

Gunnar blinked at them. "They aren't mine," he said at last. His voice was soft and hoarse. "They took mine. 'To clean'."

"To keep you there," Sinbad said.

Gunnar nodded.

"You were their captive."

Such a long silence that Sinbad thought his luck was out, and Gunnar would retreat back behind his silence. But then: "At first."

If Gunnar thought that Sinbad would believe he'd actually rejoined the Valsgarde, and just like that, he really had been asleep. Sinbad said, "You wanted to stay alive."

Gunnar frowned, like Sinbad was showing him a complicated map.

"I'm glad," Sinbad said.

They divided the last of the bread. But when Gunnar got up as if to go, Sinbad said meaningfully, "The boots, Gunnar."

Unwillingly, Gunnar pulled them off. As Sinbad had thought, one of them was blistering him at toe and heel, and quite badly.

"Yeah," Sinbad said. "That's it for now." He settled back under their tree.

Gunnar stood for a while by the discarded boots, looking away. The air was lightening; Sinbad could see the scratches their scrambling flight had left on Gunnar's bare skin.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"I don't get cold," Gunnar said. Then he looked down at Sinbad. "Are you?"

Sinbad smiled. "What, with this jacket?" He snuggled down inside it, rubbed his cheek against the fur in the collar. Even after such a hard time, and worse for the wear, it still felt wonderful. 

Gunnar stared at him. Then he knelt, hard and suddenly, his knees thudding on the earth despite the mat of pine needles. He reached up to his throat as if he'd just remembered, forcibly bent the torc open, and flung it away.

"Hey." Sinbad rose to his knees, gingerly. He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying _We could get a good price for that!_ — It was the old Sinbad who would have gone ahead and said it anyway. The old Sinbad had plenty of good ideas, but that sadly wasn't one of them.

"Sinbad..." It seemed physically painful for Gunnar to speak. "I'm so s—"

"No," Sinbad said at once, cutting him off firmly. "No no no. Don't you dare. Understand?"

Gunnar's fair brows drew together.

Sinbad smiled, reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always such a slow learner."

This time he moved to kiss Gunnar, sliding a hand around the back of his neck. First tenderly, almost a brother's kiss. Then firmly, opening his lips, touching him with the tip of his tongue. Then hard. Harder. His cut lip stung and he didn’t care. Gunnar pushed against him, open and hungry.

"Come here, then," Sinbad said, pulling back, and shoved him down flat in the low bracken. He straddled Gunnar's waist, got comfortable, and leaned to kiss him for a long, leisurely while. Gunnar's hands settled tentatively on him, stroking his back, though only on top of the jacket.

After a time, though, the touch got less timid. Gunnar held his face firmly, or gripped his shoulders, seeming to forget about Sinbad being made of fine-spun glass. And Sinbad felt something encouraging happening beneath him, arousal and heat.

But when he moved eagerly down Gunnar's body and stooped, licking his lips in preparation, Gunnar grabbed him. Not lovingly, either, but with the desperate force of someone falling.

"All right," said Sinbad. "It's all right." He sat up again and rested on Gunnar's hips, entirely unhurried.

He stripped off first his jacket, then his tunic. Not in the sort of performance he'd have put on back in the tent, with the showy self-consciousness of the seraglio. Instead he undressed eagerly, like it was time to go swimming. Then he slipped the jacket back on over his chilled bare skin and didn't fasten it up. 

Gunnar's gaze, sharp blue in the growing pre-dawn light, was open and devouring. Sinbad could feel the arousal returning beneath him. So he slid himself along over Gunnar's hips—not far, moving very slowly—until he could get at the laces on the front of the trews.

He spent some time untying and unlacing them, humming to himself. Gunnar breathed hard, his fists clenching and unclenching on handfuls of earth.

"This is a bit of a fuss," Sinbad said at last, threading the final thong-end loose. "Makes me work for it."

He eased the waistband open and tugged his own breeches down just enough, then took them both in hand together, pulling firmly, stroking down. He smiled to hear Gunnar's groan, no agony anywhere near.

There was no hurry. But the heat built, the effort and concentration made him sweat, and toward the end, both of Gunnar's hands took hold of his. Nothing tentative at all anymore—and their combined efforts were more than enough. Sinbad tipped his head back and gasped, almost laughing. When he finally toppled down boneless onto the ground, he heard Gunnar let out a long, long breath, which caught in a contented huff that was a laugh of its own.

He pulled Gunnar half on top of him—his own personal hot water bottle, though he knew better than to say it aloud.

"M'thirsty," he said.

"I'm not surprised," said Gunnar against his neck.

"Is it far to the next stream?"

Gunnar shook his head slowly.

"How about to the next village?"

Gunnar grunted.

"The crew is going to be so glad to see me," Sinbad said with glee. "Home the conquering hero."

This time the noise sounded something like "tcch".

"Well, all right, granted, I didn't tell them where I was going." He ruffled Gunnar's sweaty hair. "But someone had to find you, didn't they, all alone and lost in a forest. It's like something from one of those stories you were telling us. 'And the little child followed the...' what was it... '...the troll further into the wood...'"

Gunnar fell asleep, heavy on him, nestled into the jacket's fur collar. Sinbad savored his warmth and his weight, and daydreamed idly about the next place the Providence could take them.

Maybe even further north. After all, he wasn’t worried about the cold anymore.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Title from "We Oh We", by The Hidden Cameras.
> 
> Enormous thanks to p for all her help and planning, m for feedback and morale, and k and j for betaing.


End file.
